Chapter 2

The door creaked open, and I forced my eyes to remain shut, my breathing even. I didn't want them to know I was awake. I didn't want them to see anything in my eyes but pain and confusion.

Mark and Chloe walked in. I could smell Chloe's expensive perfume, a cloying floral scent that made my stomach turn.

"Is she still asleep?" Chloe asked, her voice a little too loud for a hospital room.

"Looks like it," Mark said. He didn't come to my side. He walked to the window, looking out at the city lights. His first concern wasn't for me, but for the view. "The gallery plans are moving forward. The contractor is starting demolition on the space tomorrow."

He was talking about Chloe's gallery. The one built on my stolen dreams and my blood.

"The doctor said the injuries were worse than we thought," Chloe said, and for the first time, there was a genuine tremor of fear in her voice. "He said something about permanent damage. That her walk might be affected."

Mark was silent for a moment. I could imagine the calculation in his eyes.

"That complicates things," he said finally. "It makes the 'random mugging' story harder to control. We'll have to manage the narrative carefully."

Manage the narrative. Not, 'Oh my God, the woman I love is seriously hurt.' But, 'How does this affect our plan?'

A memory surfaced, unbidden and painful. Last winter, I'd cut my hand on a framing wire in my studio. It wasn't a deep cut, but it bled a lot. Mark had dropped everything, rushing over with a first-aid kit. He had knelt before me, cleaning the wound with such gentle concentration, his brow furrowed with worry. He' d kissed my bandaged finger and told me my hands were too precious to be hurt.

Where was that man now? Had he ever existed? Or was he just another one of my creations, a fantasy I'd painted over the cold, hard reality of the man standing by the window?

I felt a bitter taste in my mouth. It was all a performance. Every tender touch, every loving word. It was all part of his long game, a way to gain my trust so he could steal my most valuable work. He didn't love me. He loved what I could create, and he wanted it for someone else.

The kind-faced doctor came back in later, after they had left. He had my chart in his hand, and his expression was grave.

"Ava," he began, his voice soft. "There's something else we need to discuss. The attack... it caused significant internal damage. Specifically, to your uterus."

He paused, letting the words hang in the air.

"We had to perform an emergency hysterectomy to stop the bleeding and save your life."

He might as well have said my life was over.

"What does that mean?" I whispered, though I already knew the answer.

The doctor' s sad eyes met mine.

"It means you won't be able to carry a child, Ava. I'm so, so sorry."

The room fell silent. The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound. It was the sound of my life continuing, a life now permanently empty of a possibility I hadn't even known I cherished until it was gone.

They hadn't just stolen my art. They hadn't just stolen my baby. They had stolen my future. All of it.